Quaking Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright Page

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  To Bill—Thanks for being our Sam.

  Special thanks to Patricia Lee Gauch and Tamra Tuller for teaching me to tie the theads together and weave a richer story, and to my children for kissing the manuscript good luck before mailing.

  Patricia Lee Gauch, Editor

  PHILOMEL BOOKS

  A division of Penguin Young Readers Group. Published by The Penguin Group.

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.).

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  Johannesburg 2196, South Africa.

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England.

  Copyright © 2007 by Kathryn Erskine.

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, PHILOMEL BOOKS, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. Philomel Books, Reg. U.S. Pat. & Tm. Off. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Published simultaneously in Canada.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Erskine, Kathryn. Quaking / Kathryn Erskine. p. cm.

  Summary: In a Pennsylvania town where anti-war sentiments are treated with contempt and violence, Matt, a fourteen-year-old girl living with a Quaker family, deals with the demons of her past as she batttles bullies of the present, eventually learning to trust in others as well as herself.

  [1. Patriotism—Fiction. 2. Toleration—Fiction. 3. High schools—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction.

  5. Quakers—Fiction. 6. Family life—Pennsylvania—Fiction. 7. Self-actualization (Psychology).] I. Title.

  PZ7.E7388Qua 2007 [Fic]—dc22 2006034563

  eISBN : 978-1-101-04285-4

  First Impression

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  CHAPTER ONE

  Families come in all varieties but with no warranties. I have lived with first cousins twice removed, second cousins once removed, and now a third cousin who is removing herself. I call her Loopy. Because of her large earrings. And because she is insane.

  Loopy drives like a ten-year-old car thief on a sugar high. “Don’t worry,” she says, as we skid across the ice-encrusted Pennsylvania Turnpike, “everything will be fine.”

  We are driving to my next hostile takeover. I crouch in the back because the front seat implies friendship. It is also the Seat of Death with Loopy behind the wheel. The Loopmobile doubles as her self-storage facility so I pile rolls of toilet paper and a bag of rock salt on top of me for protection.

  “I wish I could bring you on my Mission but it’s no trip for a girl.” Loopy sighs. “Some of the places I’m going, they don’t even want to hear about Jesus.” She shakes her head and her earrings do loop-de-loops.

  Loopy is taking Jesus on the road, whether He wants to go or not, and apparently there is not room for all three of us. I tell Him that being nailed to a cross would be preferable to riding with Loopy but I am sure He does not hear me. He never does.

  “You need some TLC, sugar.”

  TLC is not “Tender Loving Care” in Loopy-speak. It stands for “The Love of Christ.”

  Give me an Almighty Break. Like most of my born-again relatives, Loopy feels more at home with Jesus than with me. But I do not care for them, anyway. Nor do I care for the pseudo-religious relatives, who could only get five of the Ten Commandments right on a pop quiz—six, if they said, “Jesus Christ, I always forget these!” and then remembered the one about not taking God’s name in vain. The nonreligious cousins, who do not even pretend to be sacred, are more my style. Except they get fed up with me faster because there is no Jesus screaming at them to be nice to their enemies.

  Loopy shakes her earrings. “What’s going on with you, Matt? You’re a sweet girl, and so smart, too.”

  According to most, it is my mouth that is smart. And occasionally my ass.

  Loopy sighs.“I finally found a second cousin of mine, but you need to make it work, Matt. This is the end of the line for you.”

  I glare at the rearview mirror.

  “They’re . . . um . . . different but . . . really religious.” Her earrings spin.

  Oh, God. It is a cult. I just know it.

  “They’re Quakers.”

  Quakers? Excuse me? I thought Quakers were extinct. Or maybe that was Shakers. It was one of those trembling-type religions. Who can keep up? I am not even sure it is a religion. Maybe it is a commune. Or a disease. Oh, God, is there no one else?

  “You’ll love these people, honey.”

  I do not love anyone. I have no feelings. She should know that.

  “Give them a chance, okay?”

  My stomach acid is eating my internal organs. I must be carsick. I try to open my window, then remember that nothing works in the Loopmobile.

  I chew my nails.

  “Stop chewing your nails. And spit out any nail bits you have in your mouth.”

  I have nothing in my mouth. Except wicked words. I shoot my Evil Woman look at the back of her head.

  “I saw that!” she says, without turning around.

  I hide behind my wall of rock salt and chew my nails some more.

  “Their names are Sam and Jessica.”

  Sam and Jessica? They sound old-fashioned and fairy-tale-ish, like Little House on the Prairie. Could it be? I am picturing a farmhouse. Sam is in overalls
chopping wood. Jessica is in a long dress and is baking me some apple crisp. It is my favorite dessert but no one has ever baked it for me. I have just enjoyed it by accident because someone else wanted it.

  “They’ll love you, I’m sure.They’re already foster parents for a disabled boy.”

  My face gets squashed against the window as the Loopmobile spirals its way around an exit ramp. I stare out into the snow and see the spindly trees that have a coating of ice on them, still, hard, and cold.As we drive down a two-lane highway I see the fawn, also frozen, beside a Dumpster, alive but motionless so no one will see her. I understand. It is the only way to survive in the wild. Do not get involved. Do not be noticed.

  It is a lesson lost on many. Like Loopy. She makes noise constantly. She is now singing about Making a Joyful Noise unto the Lord. I hope He is finding her yelping joyful because there is no stopping her. The only thing that can interrupt Loopy is herself.

  “Oh, look! Here we are!”The Loopmobile takes a sharp left onto a narrow street, heaves over a curb, and jolts to a halt.

  I think I might heave, too. My hands and feet are icy cold. I stare at my fingernails, or what is left of them.

  Loopy pulls me out of the backseat. I watch the toilet paper and rock salt swallow my niche. I take a breath of the arctic blast, and shards of ice pierce my throat and eyes. I shiver convulsively and drop my backpack in the snow.

  Loopy drags me up a path, but not to a farmhouse. Casa Quaker is an ugly, gray, two-story duplex. A huge rainbow flag with giant white letters on it hangs from the roof all the way down to the top of one of the front doors.

  “I think that’s a peace flag,” Loopy says. “You know how Quakers are into peace.”

  No, actually, I know nothing about Quakers. Besides, the letters on the flag spell PACE. Either they need to buy a vowel or Sam and Jessica are advertising their last name. And they are overly enamored of it.

  The door under the PACE flag opens and Loopy shoves me from behind. “Here she is!”

  I am definitely not in Little House on the Prairie. These people wear jeans, although you could fit two Jessicas into one pair of Sam’s jeans. She is skinny and pinch-faced. Her brown magazine-model hair has a few streaks of gray. I wish I had magazine-model hair. Instead, I have frizz. Sometimes it frizzes out horizontally so I look like a tetrahedron head. But that is better than a tetrahedron body, like Sam’s. If he were a handyman, he would be the crack-showing kind.

  Loopy pokes my ribs and hisses, “Say hello!”

  I open my mouth but the words, if there are any, are frozen.

  CHAPTER TWO

  My alarm goes off. I do not want to get up. But it is not worth hearing the concerned voices asking me why I am not getting up. So I do. And then I stumble. I believe the stupid, garage-sale sofa bed trips me up on purpose. Every morning. It might have something to do with the fact that there are only six inches between the bed and the wall so it is hard, even for me, to squeeze through. I swear, loudly.

  “Mattie! Are you all right?” It is Jessica, shouting her concerned-mother voice up the stairs.

  I stomp around while I get dressed to let her know I have survived the attack of the sofa bed again.

  I trudge down the worn brown-carpeted steps to the kitchen. I wonder what is for breakfast. I hate the smell of eggs. Especially first thing in the morning. And especially mixed with coffee.

  “Eggs?” says Jessica. “Coffee?”

  I shake my head, but just barely, so as not to actually barf.

  “What can I get for you, then?”

  I sigh. I can feel some words coming on. They are not friendly ones. Shouldn’t they be eating oatmeal? Quaker Oats? Isn’t that the Quaker national dish?

  Sam turns around from his ancient computer in the corner. The little swivel stool screams under his weight, cringing and sighing when he stands up. His big round face is beaming like a kindergarten drawing of the sun.

  “Good morning, Mattie! Looks like it’s going to be a great day for your first appearance at Franklin High.” He picks up his coffee from the table and sniffs it like he is going to snort it through his nose.

  I stare past him through the window at the Pittsburgh Steelers “Super Bowl Champs” thermometer, the light from the kitchen illuminating it enough to see that the dial is way to the left on the dashing black football helmet.

  “It is four frigging degrees,” I say, the first words I have spoken to them since I moved in two days ago. It is important for the first words to be harsh. So they know not to get involved. It is for their own good.

  Sam gapes at me and spills steaming coffee down the front of his sweatshirt, then jerks back, spilling more.

  He and Jessica look at each other.

  Jessica clears her throat. She does not wake up bright and sunny like Sam. Her eyes and voice are only half there. It is something I like about her. You should not act all cheery when you have to get up and it is still dark outside, for God’s sake. Sam, this means you.

  She clears her throat again. “It might snow.”

  “It is too cold to snow,” I inform her. I refrain from saying “you moron,” even though, living in Pennsylvania, she should know that.

  “I love snow,” says Sam, wiping the coffee off his chest with a wet napkin, leaving a trail of shredded paper like snowflakes. Maybe he should not drink coffee. Are Quakers allowed to drink coffee?

  I shake my head. He must have Quaker Oats for brains.

  “Don’t you like snow?” he asks me. His blue eyes twinkle and his curly blond hair looks even bouncier than normal. A grown man should not have bouncy blond hair. Or eyes that twinkle like a two-year-old’s. Or be in love with snow.

  “Snow sucks,” I say, as coldly as I can muster.

  Jessica coughs. “Mattie, I need to ask you to watch your language, especially with Rory in the house.” She looks down at the Blob sitting on the floor.

  “In case you had not noticed,” I inform Jessica, “he does not speak.”

  “He will,” she shoots back.

  I raise my eyebrows and say “you moron” with my eyes.

  Sam and Jessica look at each other again. They do this a lot. I believe it is Quaker-speak. Or they are aliens.

  What makes them Quakers, anyway? They do not quake. Except Sam’s belly when he laughs.They do not speak Religion like Loopy. In fact, they do not seem to speak Religion at all. Still, I am not exactly overjoyed at this current hostile takeover situation.

  The Blob starts banging a blue pot on the floor. He is a drooling land mine planted on the mold and mustard linoleum to torture me. He reaches for me with his grubby hands. I step away. Jessica gives him a sticky roll of kiwi-watermelon-simulation fruit product so his fingers, face, and the floor can get covered with more gack.What is she thinking?

  “He’s communicating,” she says.

  I look at her. I want to say, “With what alien life-form?” but her eyes are red and droopy, and she is holding her head at a funny angle.

  I guess I am staring at her because she says, “I have a migraine.”

  “News flash,” I say. “Banging pots do not help migraines.”

  As if he hears me, the Blob stops for a second and utters the sound “duh.” Duh is right! Even the Blob can figure it out.

  Sam sits his overly large self down on the floor next to the Blob. The floor shakes. Four-point-nine on the Richter scale.

  Sam grins at the Blob. “You’re starting to talk already, aren’t you, bud? Ror-y. That’s you. Ror-y.”

  The Blob lets out a grunt.

  Sam claps like he is a kid at the circus.“That’s right! Rory!”

  The Blob is five years old but looks like two and acts even younger. He has some kind of “severe developmental condition,” according to Sam and Jessica. I believe he is a lost cause but they think they can reach him. I do my best to stay out of his reach. But his eyes follow me like a helpless fawn’s, trapped in an awkward body. I try to never let his eyes catch me because I do not like he
lpless and trapped. It makes my stomach queasy.

  The Blob catches my eye and I clutch my stomach with one hand, grab my backpack with the other, and head for the front door.

  “Don’t you want breakfast?” Jessica calls out after me.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Mattie—” Sam starts.

  “And do not call me Mattie.” I turn to give them my Stay Away stare. “My name is Matt.”

  I let the storm door slam behind me. I do not like people calling me Mattie. It is Matt. Just Matt. I like it because it sounds like a guy’s name and that always throws people off. They do not know what to say, which is good, because I do not wish to talk with them, anyway.

  And, of course, Matilda is not an option. That is like a freak-show name. Or so I have been told on numerous occasions. I believe my father named me that as a cruel joke. He was into jokes. And cruelty. Most of the time I hid under the bed.

  Oh, good.The bus. Right where Loopy said it would be. I get on and receive a few choice stares. I walk past one girl who says hi. She should save her breath. Nothing personal, but I am not into relationships. You would think that the Black Widow spider painted on my face with mascara would give you a clue. Or my hard stare. Or my outrageous outfit in varying shades of black. I bet you did not know that you can wear pants and a skirt at the same time. With oversized boots from the Goodwill store.

  “Weirdo,” I hear someone say. I have been called worse.

  That is all the attention I get because of what is happening in the back of the bus. I recognize the sneer. The ruthless mocking.The callous laughter.The aching silence of the Victim. It is not me. This time.

  I join the lot of the squirming potentialVictims as I strain to look away and put myself in another place altogether. It is the universal language of violence. The bully. I shudder and make note of where he is, hoping he sits there all the time. So I can sit far away. Please. Stay away.

  CHAPTER THREE